


sip the sunlight from your eyes

by troubadore



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, jaskier waxing poetic abt geralts eyes, just a couple of dumbs in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:16:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22917589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore/pseuds/troubadore
Summary: There are days he wants to melt down that gold and make it into something he’d wear—rings, maybe, clinking together as he moves his fingers, or a delicate chain necklace with a pendant, tucked close to his chest and kept by his heart.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 200





	sip the sunlight from your eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ninemelodies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemelodies/gifts).



> max and i are in love with the amazing devil and we really wanted to use the 'sip the sunlight from your eyes' lyric from not yet/love run so they challenged me to write a fic to it AND HERE I AM

In all his years—as few and short of them as they’ve been—Jaskier has never seen eyes quite like Geralt’s.

Not because they’re witchers eyes, exotic and  _ other  _ in appearance with their gold color and their cat-eye pupils, though that is some of it—because Jaskier has only met one witcher in his life—but because they’re so  _ much more. _

When they met, those eyes were full of sadness, of a deep hurt that hadn’t quite left him. Jaskier was only partially joking when he said Geralt smelled of heartache and death, but there was truth in his words: Jaskier looked at Geralt and saw that ache and that pain in his eyes, dulling that brilliant gold to something less, something dim and dirty, and he wanted to spit-shine it back to perfection.

Over time, that sadness has receded, replaced by exasperated fondness and even contentment at times, Jaskier would like to think, and he’s terribly proud of himself the first time those eyes shimmer with laughter at a particularly bawdy joke he tells. Geralt lights up when he laughs, deep rumbles in his chest that wrap around Jaskier like a protective blanket and mirth that makes the gold of his eyes bright as polished metal.

There are days he wants to melt down that gold and make it into something he’d wear—rings, maybe, clinking together as he moves his fingers, or a delicate chain necklace with a pendant, tucked close to his chest and kept by his heart.

Days like today, on the road with no particular destination in mind, Jaskier finds himself unable to stop looking at Geralt, catching the way the sun hits his face and makes his eyes glow like crystallized honey. He’s a vision, truly, and Jaskier feels incredibly humbled and incredibly proud to walk beside him.

“You’re staring.”

Jaskier blinks, and Geralt is looking at him from the corner of his beautiful eye. His mouth is curled at the edge, and Jaskier licks his lips and wonders what Geralt would taste of if he kissed him.

“You’re worth staring at,” he finally says, terribly sincere. Geralt's eyebrow goes up and he adds, “Your eyes are...magnificent, you know. I've never seen any like them.”

“All witchers' eyes are the same,” Geralt says, gruff as always. “It’s not like I’m the only one who has them.”

Jaskier shakes his head, taking a few quick steps so that he’s in front of Geralt, walking backwards. “Mm, I disagree. No one else has your eyes, Geralt. It's not just their color—I know witchers have gold eyes—it’s the emotions  _ behind _ them, your experience. Your life. It makes them...unique.” His voice softens as he adds, “Beautiful.”

It’s a shame that Geralt doesn’t blush, but the way he ducks his head lets Jaskier know he’s not unaffected. “They’re the color of piss and they scare people,” he says wryly, giving Jaskier a look, like making direct eye contact will prove his point.

He is sadly mistaken.

The words cut through Jaskier, and he puts a hand over his heart, stuttering. Most of it’s for show, but there’s a part of him dying a little on the inside at Geralt’s casual dismissal of his own worthiness.

“The color of piss—I can't!” he exclaims, outraged. “They are the color of sunlight in the evening, the last drops of it caressing the horizon as a man caresses the skin of his lover with warm fingers and gentle touches! They are drops of honey in tea to sweeten it on the tongue! They are a band on a finger that promises forever, in sickness and in health, ‘til death do us part!”

Geralt is looking at him with surprise, glorious golden eyes wide at the outburst and vehemence with which Jaskier spits the words, and Jaskier finds his steam running out in the face of it, seeing vulnerability and  _ hope  _ swimming behind yellow irises.

There is more he wants to say, though, and he continues quietly, tenderly, “They are a light when all that’s left is darkness. They are hope when there is little left to be found. They are kindness and caring and love, and anyone  _ lucky  _ enough to have your eyes on them should count themselves blessed by the gods.” 

Quiet hangs between them when Jaskier finishes speaking, nothing but the rustle of wind in the trees and the chirp of birds. He watches as Geralt’s throat works, swallowing, and he looks away from Jaskier finally.

“You always have such pretty words, bard,” Geralt says, rough and low. He begins walking again, gently leading Roach beside him, and Jaskier turns to walk beside him again.

“Part of the job,” Jaskier teases, bumping their shoulders together. “But I do mean it, Geralt. You’re more than you give yourself credit for, I think.”

Geralt hums, and there’s the hint of a smile on his face. “Not everyone would agree with you on that.”

“Then they’re fools,” Jaskier declares simply, and pulls his lute around to begin plucking at the strings. “The whole lot of them.”

He yelps, striking a discordant note, when Geralt playfully nudges him back, catching him off guard. Jaskier turns to him, offense written on his face, to see an actual grin on his mouth and his gold eyes lit like fire.

“More fool you for falling for a witcher,” Geralt says, and Jaskier doesn’t have an argument for that. 

**Author's Note:**

> pls follow on twitter [@troubadorer](http://twitter.com/troubadorer) for more geraskier yelling


End file.
